


The Robot and Mr. Smith

by volta_arovet



Category: Gunnerkrigg Court
Genre: Other, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:Iseult Variante
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volta_arovet/pseuds/volta_arovet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irresistible force meets immovable object.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Robot and Mr. Smith

## The Robot and Mr. Smith

Written for: Iseult Variante in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge

by [volta arovet](http://yuletidetreasure.org/cgi-bin/contact.cgi?filename=78/therobot)

Andrew Smith walked into his room, dropped his satchel on the floor, kicked his shoes into a corner, and tossed his standard-issue fedora onto the bed. Being Andrew, this meant his books slipped out into a neatly aligned pile (alphabetic by title), his shoes untied themselves and rolled their laces into precise coils, and his hat ricocheted off the pillow, banister, and landed squarely on the coat rack.

He glanced in the mirror and frowned at his reflection. There had been a time when, at Parley's suggestion, he had attempted longer hair, but "artistically tousled" doesn't work well when one's hair is determined to lie straight and untangled. Eventually, he'd grown tired of Parley's attempts to muss it up and had shorn it short again.

And that was, perhaps, the story of his life. Parley would rush into his room like a whirlwind, spreading casual disorder wherever she'd like, and yet, within the day, all evidence that she had been there would disappear. (For certain definitions of 'disappear,' largely meaning 'thrown away or neatly sorted into efficient piles for ease of transportation.')

Even his mates, good as they were, preferred to meet in their own rooms rather than spend time in Andrew's creepily neat room. He knew this because they had told him this directly. This is how guys do things.

This is why he was surprised to see a pair of pants sitting in the middle of the floor.

Also, they were not his pants.

With the care and finesse born from years of training as a medium, Andrew grabbed a meter stick off his desk and poked the pants.

When nothing happened, he poked them again.

One of the legs shifted, revealing a long, gangly metal arm. The arm carefully picked up the fabric and covered itself again.

Andrew cleared his throat. "Hello?"

"Helloooooo~!" it said, and added, helpfully, "I'm a pair of pants!"

Andrew knelt down to the pants' level. It was always good to practice Diplomacy in strange situations, he figured. You know, just in case of a future robot uprising. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm hiding!"

"What are you hiding from?" Andrew asked, and there was a long pause.

"I don't knoooooow," it said sadly.

Andrew would have questioned this further, but in the hall, someone was yelling, "Boxbot! Where are you?"

"Noooooo~!" Boxbot cried, and zoomed about in circles. It crashed into Andrew's ankles, who toppled backwards into his desk. The pens from his holder spilled onto the floor, arranging themselves in order of color, sub-organized by ink level.

Boxbot bumped into Andrew's hamper and a pair of his shorts got caught on one of its corners. Andrew dove for the robot, and only managed to snag his underwear. He did, however manage to knock over a stack on his bookshelf. The books flopped into a pile and organized themselves by size, sub-organized by publication company--that was a new one.

Andrew backed up and tripped over his pile of school books. He, and they, tumbled to the floor again. Boxbot zipped under the bed, humming unhappily to itself. Andrew looked at the books. They were--

They were completely unorganized in any way. He looked for a pattern in the way they had fallen, and he couldn't find any. It wasn't by color, by author, by order of class or by page count. They weren't even properly stacked.

It was weird.

It was normal.

It was kind of neat.

"Boxbot!" a boy outside the room wailed. "I need my term paper!"

Andrew looked at the little robot and noticed a bunch of papers in its claw. He knelt in front of the robot and held out his hand, palm up, like he was offering it to a skittish kitten to sniff. "Boxbot?" he said gently.

Boxbot wheeled itself to the edge of the bed. It looked at Andrew's hand, looked at his face, looked at his hand again. "Hmmmmm?"

"Can you give me those papers?"

Boxbot looked at the papers, looked at Andrew's hand, looked at his face, looked at the papers, looked at his hand, looked at the papers, looked at his hand, looked at the papers...

"Boxbot?"

...looked at his hand, looked at the papers, looked at his hand, looked at the papers, and came to a decision.

Oh-so-carefully, Boxbot moved the term paper in front of him, neatly folded it corner-to-corner, inspected it, and put it on its head. He looked up to Andrew for approval, arms spread wide.

Andrew sighed, but inwardly, since he was still practicing Diplomacy. "That's very nice, Boxbot."

Boxbot lit up, quite literally. It tugged on Andrew's sleeve, insistent. "Here!" It pressed a paisley sock into his hand.

Andrew put the sock aside.

"Here!" Boxbot said again, handing Andrew a rather important-looking spring and cog. He hoped that wasn't a part of something vital.

"Can I please have the term paper?" Andrew asked.

"Hmmmmm..." Boxbot thought.

Andrew neatly lifted the term paper from Boxbot's head.

"Awwwww...."

"Thank you," Andrew said, and poked his head out the door. "Here's your term paper, mate," he said, passing the paper to the boy outside. He winced and snatched the pants from the floor, winging it at the boy's head. "And your trousers," he added.

"Have you seen Boxbot anywhere?" the boy asked.

"Sorry, mate," Andrew said, and shut the door. "You can hide here for a bit, until he cools down," he said to Boxbot. He looked around the room. There was unfolded laundry out of its hamper, books spilled in a disorderly fashion, and random objects scattered about his floor.

It looked, in short, like a typical boy's room.

"Or a little longer, if you like," Andrew amended.

Boxbot cheered.

This was either the start of a beautiful friendship, or a mental breakdown.

**Author's Note:**

> ("Helloooooo~!"
> 
> "...Smitty. What th'hell is that?")


End file.
